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Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Remembering Jaron

This post originally appeared in the Spring 2009 issue of TriDC Magazine.

When
I remember my younger brother Jaron, I remember the fearless novice on
the ski slope, always looking for the steepest cliff from which to fling
himself. Then, careening wildly down the mountain as he tried to keep
upright, before joyously tumbling into an explosion of loose powder and
ski poles.

I remember the collegiate football kicker who made an
ESPN-worthy one-on-one flying tackle to prevent a return for a
touchdown; and the kid against whom I used to play soccer in the yard in
six inches of snow. I wear a jersey dedicated to him to remind me, and
anyone who asks, of how precious and precarious life can be, and of the
importance of living each moment to its utmost.

I returned from
the gym in January, 2007, to find four missed calls to my cell phone and
a message saying only, “Damon, it’s mom. Call me right away.” With an
immediate feeling of dread, I hit speed dial, and she answered, saying
“Jaron collapsed and stopped breathing. He is in a coma, and is being
airlifted from the local hospital to Temple University, where they have a
neurosurgeon waiting. You should drive to Philadelphia right away. He
might not make it.” At the time, Jaron, my only sibling, was 28 years
old. For someone so young, he had the world at his feet—he had been
student council president of our high school and attended Lehigh
University on a football scholarship, where he had been a twotime
all-conference place kicker, set the school record for most consecutive
extra points made, and broken nearly every strength record in the books.
More recently, he’d earned an MBA in management, set sales records for
his marketing company, and regularly volunteered time to mentor
underprivileged children through the Little Brothers program. Most
remarkably, just a week before the fateful phone call, he had gotten
engaged to his girlfriend on a Philadelphia morning television show,
terrific footage of which is still available on YouTube.

I talked to him briefly right after his
engagement to congratulate him—it would be the last time we spoke. Later
that afternoon, he developed a splitting headache that continued to
worsen each day. After days of severe suffering, he went to his doctor,
who diagnosed a migraine, prescribed painkillers, and sent him home. The
next day, an emergency room doctor did the same. No doctor thought to
do a CT scan, and he never made it back a third time; a ventricle in his
brain was blocked, and the intracranial pressure had become fatal. We
were told by the neurosurgeon that had the problem been diagnosed days
or even hours earlier, it would have been treatable.

Jaron was
more full of life than anyone I’ve ever known. In nightclubs, he’d have a
huge circle of people cheering him as he danced; on ski lifts, he’d
become great friends with the person next to him in the space of five
minutes. And, although the two of us fought tooth and nail growing
up—often literally—we had grown very close in the last few years,
developing the sort of happy rivalry that can only be born of mutual
respect and admiration. After I completed my first iron-distance
triathlon, the ChesapeakeMan, in 2006, Jaron thought, “So, you think
you’re in good shape? We’ll see about that!” and registered for the 2007
Marine Corps Marathon with my father and me. He pretended to be
training just for fun, but he was sandbagging for sure—I’d heard
numerous reports that he was up before dawn every morning running ten
miles or more, with the clear purpose of reminding his bookish older
brother who the family athlete was when race time came. “Bring it on,
kid!” I thought.

It is impossible to describe how difficult it is
to lose such an incredible person—and my only sibling—so unexpectedly.
But however hard it was for me, it was no doubt even more painful for
his fiancée, who was with him throughout that awful week. In the months
thereafter, the unqualified support I got from friends, family, and
coworkers was invaluable. But I also consider myself deeply in debt to
triathlon for helping me through that time by lending structure to my
life, and offering a constructive outlet for the emotional maelstrom I
was experiencing. I found that 20-mile runs and 100-mile bike rides
allowed me to reach a zen-like state of reflection on my troubles, and
no matter how exhausted I became, life always seemed brighter after a
few hours in the sunshine. In one of life’s sad ironies, Jaron never got
to witness a triathlon, but I have come to think that the sport
captures his life philosophy more than anything else I have experienced;
the mentality of adventure, self-exploration, living in the moment, and
pushing oneself rapturously to the breaking point was his essence.

I
ordered a set of custom triathlon jerseys, and I, my family, and
several of Jaron’s friends have worn them at every race since.

In September 2007, I competed in Ironman Wisconsin, my second race of that distance and the first since Jaron passed away. The
day was simply spectacular, and as I donned my wetsuit and made the
slow march across the timing mat with the 2,500 other anxious
competitors, I looked across the water and realized that tears were
streaming down my face. One friendly guy next to me noticed and, trying
to be reassuring, asked if it was my first time.

But it was the
opposite of fear or nerves—it was the realization that our sport is such
a metaphor for life, and the sudden certainty that Jaron was there with
me, grinning and waiting for the moment when the gun would go off and
we would charge off together into the sunrise.

People often ask
me why anyone would choose to train for 20 hours a week on top of
commitments to job, family, friends, and significant others. I think we
all have different reasons, whether it is running from something,
running toward something, or just loving to run. Personally, Jaron
taught me that we can all do amazing things if we recognize the moral
obligation to use the talents we are given, and to chase big dreams with
fearless abandon. I miss him deeply every day, but once or twice a
year, when the alarm goes off at 4:00 a.m. and I head out of my door
toward the transition area, I get a quiet smile and think: Come on,
buddy. We’re going racing.